by Marie Laval
‘They’re going home,’ Rose interrupted.’ That’s good news. At least they’ll be safe now.’
‘Safe?’ Wallace turned to her.
Rose nodded. ‘Safe from Lord McRae. Did your friend know anything about Lord McGunn’s whereabouts?’
He shook his head. ‘She saw him leave with Lord McRae and a small army of his men. He was ill and had to be practically carried into the brougham while McRae and his mother climbed into another carriage.’
‘Does she know where they are going?’
‘She was told they were heading for Wrath.’
‘Why would Cameron and his mother leave for Wrath so suddenly, and why did Bruce travel in a carriage instead of riding Shadow? He must have been too ill to ride,’ Rose whispered. She gripped Wallace’s arm.
‘My lieutenant’s the strongest man I know, he’s never been ill in all the years I’ve known him,’ Wallace scoffed, with a shrug of his massive shoulders.
‘I found out today that he was being poisoned by a man who works for him.’
Wallace cursed through his teeth and turned to Rose.
‘Why the hell would anyone want to poison the lieutenant?’
As they walked away from the old tower, Rose told him all about Cameron and her fake wedding. She told him about Malika and Fenella McKay being found dead at Wrath, and about her father’s diary now in Cameron’s possession. She left out what she now knew about Bruce’s father being a murderer and a thief.
She nodded. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We’ll ride after them in the morning, of course. I’ll get your horse back from the Kirkhouse Inn, then I’ll see if I can round up a few comrades on the way.’
‘Not before the morning, but…’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t you worry, Miss Rose. McRae won’t harm him, at least not until he has what he wants, and I suspect that whatever it is, it’ll be at Wrath.’
The whisperers were back. Death’s angels murmured in his head.
He groaned, tried to move and gave up. He was too damned tired. Was it his heart he could hear or a tenor drum resonating, loud and steady as it marched into battle? And why was the ground moving under him? He cursed, and looked around. He was tied up like a hog and lay on the floor of a carriage travelling at the devil’s speed on a bumpy road. What the hell was going on?
He pulled on his ties and tried to sit up straight but the carriage bounced and swerved so much, all he achieved was to hit his head against the wooden bench. A wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him. He closed his eyes and waited for his pulse to stop racing. Where was he, and how had he got here?
Images floated through his mind, confused and disjointed.
He’d come back from the Kirkhouse Inn, freshened up and shaved in his room at Westmore Manor, then requested an urgent interview with McRae. It took hours for the valet to come back and tell him that McRae would see him in the library, and by then, Bruce had all but lost patience and was pacing his room like a tiger in a bamboo cage.
The library was once again empty when he got there.
‘Please help yourself. His Lordship won’t be long,’ the valet said, indicating a tray of food and drinks had been laid on an elegant console table near the fireplace.
To kill time rather than because he was hungry, Bruce ate a couple of small beef and horseradish sandwiches, and sipped a cup of strong, fragranced tea. There was definitely something wrong with his taste buds, along with everything else, he thought grimly as he forced the drink down, because much of what he ate and drank these days seemed to have the same sickening herbal tang.
His gaze had then wandered to the wall with the paintings.
‘Damn it!’
Slamming his cup down, he had walked across the room. Niall McRae’s portrait had been taken off and replaced by the painting of an old woman in a feather-topped hat. He hadn’t realised how much he wanted to see the man’s portrait again, how much he needed that visual connection with Niall McRae – his father. It made him feel odd and guilty to admit it, as if he were betraying the long line of McGunns who’d fought against the McRaes over the centuries, betraying the hatred and the resentment ingrained into him since he was born.
He raked his fingers through his hair. If nothing else, the removal of the painting only proved his suspicions were well-founded. Someone here was nervous about Bruce, or anyone else, noticing the extraordinary resemblance between the two men.
He forced down more tea, and was sipping his second cup when McRae came down.
‘You wanted to see me, McGunn? I didn’t realise the lawyers had already drafted the sales agreement.’
The heels of his shiny black shoes clicked on the parquet as he walked across the floor. He sat behind his walnut desk and immediately reached for his cigar box.
‘Still no cigar for you?’ he asked with a cold smile. Without waiting for an answer he glanced at the tray of food and smiled.
‘I hope you enjoyed your collation. I am particularly fond of these Angus beef and horseradish sandwiches. Was the tea to your liking? The blend is quite unusual and refreshing too, don’t you think?’
‘I’m not here to exchange recipes or discuss tea blends,’ Bruce stated as he stood behind the desk and looked down at McRae. The time for pretence had long passed. ‘And I’m not here to sign any sales agreement either. I know who I am. I know who my father was.’ Saying the words aloud almost choked him. He gestured towards the portraits. ‘And I gather you know too – probably knew all along. You and I have things to settle. We can do it here and now, discreetly, or I can ask my lawyers to start a lawsuit – a very public lawsuit. Your choice.’
His direct approach broke through McRae’s composure. The cigar slipped from his fingers and rolled slowly across the desk. Without looking at Bruce, he reached out for it, stuck it between his lips and proceeded to light it. It took him two attempts but at last he drew in a few puffs and reclined on his chair.
‘How did you work it out?’
‘It doesn’t matter how, what matters is what we’re going to do about it.’
‘Even if you managed to prove anything, you wouldn’t gain much by a public lawsuit, you know. Bastard sons don’t count as far as the law is concerned.’
‘That maybe so, but your… I mean our father changed his will in my favour on his deathbed. He got Colonel Saintclair to write to Langford and Stewart and to your mother, too. Yet his instructions were blatantly ignored and his letters destroyed.’
Now was the time to bluff. Pity he felt too damned ill all of a sudden to enjoy seeing McRae sweat.
‘All but one, of course… Suppose I recently found the missive he wrote to my mother, the one Pichet delivered before he was killed by Donald Robertston? By the way, the man worked your mother, didn’t he? She was the one he talked about when he told the police constable he’d been hired by a person of high status to carry out the attack on the French man – that same person had him killed in his cell no doubt…’
Cameron glanced up and narrowed his eyes.
‘Pure speculation on your part, McGunn.’ He paused, clenching his fists. ‘So you read the diary, and you have the letter. Where was it? Where did your mother hide it?’
‘Never mind that. The question is, are you prepared to see our family secrets exposed in a lawsuit? You said your mother was unwell. What do you think such a public scandal would do to her?’
It was a low blow, but he didn’t care if he sounded as callous and cold as McRae. He tried to breathe deeply but his chest felt uncomfortably tight. His legs suddenly too weak to support him, he reached for the back of the armchair and gripped it hard.
Damn. Of all the times for a fit, this was probably the worse yet.
‘You don’t look so good, McGunn. Is here anything I can do to help? A little more tea, maybe?’ McRae’s cool blue eyes lingered over him, assessing, and a slow smile curled his lips.
‘I feel fine,’ Bruce growled. ‘Listen, McRae, I want to make a deal with you.
’
His words sounded distant, as if spoken by someone standing at the other side of the room.
Snap out of it and focus, damn it. Since last night, he’d thought long and hard about what he really wanted, what was important for him and his people, and now was the time to make his claim.
‘Another deal? Yesterday you were prepared to sell me Wrath to extricate yourself from the debts your drunken fool of grandfather plunged you into – debts my lawyers advised me to buy off the bank so that I could take control of Wrath and kick you out of your miserable, crumbly old tower. I wonder what kind of deal you have in mind now.’
As he puffed on his cigar, his face became faint and disappeared behind the smoke.
Don’t let him see you’re ill.
‘I’m not interested in the titles, in this fancy castle or in your wealth,’ Bruce said in a slow voice. ‘Believe it or not, I don’t want to be a McRae, legitimate or illegitimate. I spent my lifetime despising that very name.’
His cravat was coiled around his neck like a snake, preventing him from breathing. What had possessed him to tie it so tightly? Letting go of the armchair he started to loosen it but his fingers were clumsy and it took two attempts. He undid the top buttons of his shirt as well.
‘So what do you want?’ McRae sneered.
‘I want the bank loans cancelled and Wrath financially secure. I want you to stop the clearances at Westmore, and I want assurances that the people you have displaced so far have adequate shelter and employment. That’s all.’
‘And I don’t believe you.’ McRae’s response shot cold and clear.
He stubbed his cigar into the ashtray, rose to his feet and walked to one of the patio doors overlooking the park, the dark patches of forest and the grey, forever moving surface of the sea beyond.
‘No man in their right mind would forsake all this – and a fat slice of the McRae fortune – for a draughty ruin at Wrath and the welfare of a bunch of crofters. Why do you care so much about them anyway? They’re little more than animals scratching the ground for a pittance. What is it to you if I move them out of the straths to set up sheep farms? Cheviot sheep, that’s where the money is, not crofters.’
Bruce forced a few deep breaths down. Sweat pearled on his forehead, rolling down to sting his eyes.
‘Not everyone is a greedy as you. I happen to value people more than sheep.’ He pulled his cravat off and used it to wipe his forehead.
‘Anyway, I have given you my terms. What's your answer? Shall we settle things here and now, or later in court?’
McRae spun round and marched up to him, stopping only when he was a couple of steps away.
‘You said you grew up despising the McRaes, well, I’ll tell you how I grew up. From the day my mother told me about you when I was sixteen, the fear never left me that one day you’d finally find out who you truly were. I had nightmares about you riding up to the front door, ordering me to pack up, kicking me out while you took control of Westmore, and of everything.’ He smiled. ‘But that’s not going to happen. Ever. I won’t agree to anything with you, privately or publicly. The only proof anything ever went on between my father and your slut of a mother, and that you’re his bastard son is that letter you claim to have. My father’s portrait suffered an unfortunate accident this morning – it fell into the fire… I am most upset about it, naturally, since it was the only painting ever made of the man.’
Bruce thought about the medallion he’d foolishly thrown into the fire and cursed himself. That would have been his best chance of proving he was Niall’s son – since there was no letter. He had to gain time and carry on bluffing.
‘Your mother knew, and the lawyers of course… Who else?’
‘Your grandfather, of all people.’ Cameron shook his head. ‘The cunning old devil managed to blackmail my mother into giving him rather large sums of money on a few occasions.’
So that was why they’d come to Westmore that time when he was ten.
‘The last time he came here begging for money, my mother bought you a commission in the 92nd Highlanders. I think she was hoping you’d get yourself killed. To tell the truth, I think he too was hoping the same thing. He really didn’t seem to like you very much…’
A shooting pain sliced through Bruce’s chest, the blood drained from his face, and he started shaking. Any second now and he would fall to the ground. McRae’s face swam in front of his eyes. He could hardly keep them open.
‘Oh dear, you really don’t look so good. You should sit down.’
McRae pushed Bruce into the armchair. His pale, long-fingered hands gripped either side and he leaned over until he was so close Bruce smelled the cigar smoke on his breath.
‘I have a little surprise for you. A few people you may remember from a recent trip to Inverness have now arrived at Westmore. They’ve just been to see Langford and Stewart to sign an affidavit and I believe they’ll be with us any second now.’
Bruce could hardly hear him. His heart raced, too loud, too fast. His head pounded, the pain suddenly unbearable. His brain filled with the distorted sounds of the library door opening and boots pounding the parquet as three of McRae’s henchmen walked in. Behind them were two women clad in flamboyant gowns billowing like sails with their every step. Each wore a large, colourful ostrich feathered hat that sat atop their chignon like some gigantic bird about to take to the air. With their garish make up and the perfume that wafted around them like a noxious cloud, it wasn’t hard to guess what their profession was.
He’s seen them before.
McRae’s men now stood in next to the women, hands resting on their pistols.
‘That’s him all right!’ The oldest woman shrieked, a look of sheer horror distorting her painted face as she pointed a finger in his direction. ‘I’d recognise that big brute anywhere. He was full of drink and in such a violent mood he gave us a right scare that night. He looked like the devil, he did. We cater for respectable gentlemen in our establishment, not thugs like him.’
‘Aye, and he insisted on taking both girls away, even though the poor lambs could hardly stand, let alone walk, by the time he’d finished with them,’ the other woman carried on. She shook her head, her double chin wobbling like an unappetising blancmange. ‘He had to carry them in his arms,’ she finished with a wail.
‘What poor lambs? Who are you talking about?’ Bruce asked.
‘That young girl, a bonnie blonde lass – she couldn’t have been more than fifteen. She didn’t talk much but she said she knew you the moment you staggered in, drunk as a skunk.’
Hell. Could she be talking about Fenella McKay?
Bruce rose to his feet and took an unsteady step forward. ‘I didn’t hurt anyone.’
The woman jumped back with a squeal as if scared he would touch her.
‘I was in no fit state to do anything to any woman for that matter,’ he carried on but the words came out slow and raspy. ‘I’d just been ambushed by a gang of thugs. I don’t beat girls or women up.’
‘Well, we know what we heard and what we saw, and that’s what we told that old lawyer,’ one of the women decreed as she crossed her short, plump arms on her chest.
Bruce pressed his finger and thumb against the bridge of his nose. What if the women were right? After all, he did remember some kind of brothel, and he’d definitely seen Malika, but could he really have hurt, raped and killed her? Could he have tortured her? And what about that other girl he’d forgotten all about? Damn it, why couldn’t he remember?
McRae’s voice cut through the haze of doubts and troubled thoughts swirling in his mind.
‘The statements will be sent to the Procurator Fiscal in Thurso at first light tomorrow morning. I think we can expect police constables to pay us a visit soon after and take you to Inverness jail.’
He paused and let out a low chuckle.
‘You never know, you may even get to spend time in Fergus McGunn’s old cell – the one he stayed in before being taken to London for his exec
ution. Do you think history is about to repeat itself?’
He dismissed the women with a flick of his hand and ordered one of his men to take them back to the servants’ quarter for refreshments. Two men stayed behind, guarding the door and scowling menacingly at him.
‘I don’t remember anything,’ Bruce muttered.
McRae’s face twisted in a mock grimace and he put his hand to his heart.
‘How awful for you, but I assure you that the women are prepared to testify at your trial. For now, I’ll leave you to think about your predicament. We might be able to come to an agreement later. Take him to the tower,’ he then instructed his men. ‘We’ll keep him there until it’s time to leave.’
Leave? Leave for where?
By then he was too weak to fight the men off, and he could only groan when they grabbed hold of him and punched him hard in the face and the gut, before dragging him towards the fireplace. For a second he thought they were going to throw him into the roaring fire, but they pressed on a brass lever at the centre of the panel. As in a dream, the wall slid open onto a dark passageway. No doubt McRae didn’t want him to be seen. Not yet anyway.
After that there were only visions of mayhem and hell, excruciating pain shooting through his body, and the screaming and whispering in his head…
He must have fallen asleep again. He woke up with a start, banging the back of his head against the bench.
Sleeping had helped. He felt a little stronger. His headache had subsided to a dull ache, and his chest wasn’t quite as tight. He pulled on the ropes binding his wrists and legs as hard as he could. The muscles on his shoulders and arms bulged and strained, sweat beaded on his forehead, and his heart raced. To no avail.
He took hard, deep breaths. There had to be a way he could escape and get back to Rose. Thank goodness she was at the Kirkhouse Inn. He’d left the landlord enough money for her to be treated well, and if she kept to the room as he’d instructed, she would be safe.
